


Avventurina

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25419985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: It is important to make everything right, and Dandolo has the best of the best to prepare everything. But the one they are doing all this for can be a harsh judge.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Avventurina

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salmaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmaka/gifts).



> To the one who persists. I'm so happy to know you.

Dandolo knows well where the food in the Palace comes from but he rarely goes to pick it himself, simply for the lack of time. However, even with his schedule for the several days cleared of everything that can wait without harm, he wouldn’t have gone to the market: the matter at hand is too important yet requires a measure of secrecy and finesse. His co-conspirators have been hard at work, and though most of their plans has been relatively easy to fulfil, the last part carries a much higher risk, due to the dangerous proximity of their mark.

It isn’t the first operation of this sort that Dandolo has commanded, however, and he has professionals of the highest skill with him.

‘Try not to shake the basket too much, _Lahmu_ , or the peaches will bruise. They are very ripe.’

Dandolo puts a hand under the bottom of the heavy—and getting ever heavier as he moves through orchards with his companion—basket to stabilise it.

Seven-Eighteen picks an orange-red peach from the assortment in front of one, turns it before one’s eyes, and puts it into the basket slowly. The basket is lined with lichen to prevent the various fruits from damaging each other, and oranges, big and bright and heavy, are weighing down the bottom, yet still much care is required.

Dandolo is starting to feel a little dizzy from the various sweet scents trailing after them as they move from greenhouse to greenhouse.

Seven-Eighteen gets onto one’s tiptoes, and Dandolo lowers the basket so one could have a look. ‘What’s left in the list, _Lahmu_? Berries?’

He has the list in his sleeve, but his hands are occupied. So he tries to recall from memory. ‘Yes. I was thinking of blackcurrants, they are so fragrant and versatile.’

Seven-Eighteen shrugs. ‘That they are, but why not jams? This is,’ one gestures at the basket, ‘a lot for one person.’

Dandolo couldn’t disagree. ‘He _can_ eat it in a span of a few days, but even if there is anything left, he won’t let it go to waste, worry not.’

‘The last time he sent back half of it.’

Dandolo sighs. Yes, literally: everything returned neatly cut, one half removed. Even berries. ‘My mistake: secrecy wasn’t tight enough. I’m good, but not as good as our Spymaster. Thankfully, this time she’s with us.’

Seven-Eighteen leans back. ‘She’s coming? This is a very clever move, _Lahmu_ , he will never be angry with her.’

‘She is already here, and it took a lot of her skills and connections to make sure only a few people know. And I won’t hide behind my daughter—but,’ he glances into the basket, ‘hopefully, her presence will ensure that no wrenches fly to any head but mine, if at all.’

Seven-Eighteen makes a clicking sound—chuckling. ‘What a magnificent endeavour. Let us ensure the berries are just perfect, then.’

Dandolo sits down on an outrigger and looks around. It has taken them three hours to clean everything up here, even when the cleaning was performed by about thirty people. The workshops are, in a way, a sacred ground like any professional area, and both the outbound day shift and the inbound night shift of the mechanics were nervous about intrusion of outsiders, even when they mean well and the task at hand is even more important than simple cleaning.

Dandolo, having not had his usual mid-day rest, feels a little too sharp, and he was only glad to be used as simple muscle, tasked mostly with moving sandsails around. Niesha, ever the professional, has organised both the absence of their mark and the delivery of everything necessary, and without attracting attention or even suspicion.

At least, so Dandolo hopes.

He catches himself looking around and visually checking all the items they’ve brought.

The outrigger dips slightly as Melvin joins him on the perch. ‘If—or maybe, when—he throws a wrench, I’ll get a shield on you.’

He smiles and takes Melvin’s warm hand. ‘I am ever so grateful, _Corvo_ , but don’t you trust my reflexes?’

‘Maybe not in all this excitement.’

Dandolo kisses him lightly to better show how grateful he is.

A stirs runs through everyone. The lift rumbles, going down, and Dandolo _knows_ who’s descending.

He gets up. Melvin slots his fingers between Dandolo’s.

One of the two figures on the lift platform, the human one, is rather intimidating, in Dandolo’s opinion, especially with arms crossed on the chest.

Yet Dandolo has hope. Although it is, indeed, the usual time of starting the night shift, there are certain changes which tell him it won’t be a regular day: the frowning, intimidating man is wearing a long sleeveless coat, dark-blue with azure embroidery over the lower hem, and there is no tool-belt on his hips.

Orion walks into the cave with the sure step of the chief, looks around slowly, frowning deeply enough that Dandolo _hears_ a click made by the throat of one of the newer, younger mechanics. Orion’s gaze lingers on his sister, on Equanimity, the frown almost smooths at the sight of Gabriel and Niesha. Then his gaze, the frown renewed, stops on Dandolo.

The hound at Orion’s feet looks up and makes a quiet inquisitive sound.

Then, suddenly, like a storm out of season, Orion's frown and his arms drop, and he looks tender. ‘You are all here!’ He says it as though he can’t quite believe it.

Orion knows his own worth and won’t let anyone question or undermine it again. It is that sometimes... In moments which, thankfully, become more and more rare, that worth isn’t very big, in his eyes.

Niesha jumps to her feet and runs to him and throws her arms around him—probably the only person in existence allowed that unconditionally. ‘Yes! Happy birthday, Pipi!’

The cheers shake the caves.

Dandolo is content to sit on his perch in a wide wall niche where usually parts of sails are stored. The party is ongoing—he doubts it would stop in a few hours or even a few days. It is quite a misconception that Chief Mechanic Orion doesn’t have friends or even people who would want to come to, as they say, ‘hang out’. Even though this particular celebration is confined to the closest circle—already wide enough—there are many new arrivals also, people joining, leaving, joining again.

‘How you’ve brought Goal is beyond me,’ Orion says. His previously immaculately combed curls are now in quite a lovely disarray, white threads making him look not fierce but striking. ‘She couldn’t have possibly gotten home in time, and she only smiles and says to ask you.’

Dandolo takes a sip from his glass. The pomegranate juice is refreshingly tart on his tongue, keeping him awake. ‘I calculated where she was most probably present, tracked her down, and then piloted her _waka_ , that is all.’

Orion narrows his eyes. ‘At breakneck speed, no doubt!’

Dandolo smiles. ‘I would never endanger your family, I promise.’

‘And you always break this promise when you take risks yourself,’ Orion grumbles. He looks flushed a little, his eyes bright: there is dancing, of course, and singing, and all kinds of things, and that fruit basket being steadily emptied. The energy pouring out is palpable. Orion is happy.

Orion looks to the side, then at Dandolo. ‘Get up.’

He leaves the glass on the floor, and stands up. His heart is tight in his chest.

‘Thank you,’ Orion says quietly. ‘For... everything.’

Dandolo thinks it’s not only about the not-very-surprise party. Orion lifts his hands slightly, and Dandolo understands. He wraps Orion into an embrace, knowing to hold on until Orion himself steps away, and kisses the unruly curls lightly.

Orion’s hands press into his back.

Then, after a few long moments, Orion steps away and Dandolo lets go. Mischief lights up Orion’s eyes. ‘There is something missing, though. Where is my gift?’

Dandolo reaches to a small box he’s been keeping close the whole night, and gives it to Orion, trying to hold back a smile.

Orion opens the lid and takes out the gift: it’s a long sash woven from three strands of sturdy crimson fabric. In the depths of the fabric, some threads glimmer at a certain angle.

Orion looks up, face alight with wonder. ‘It’s made from sail-cloth!’

Dandolo nods. ‘From the first sandsail I smashed on your watch. So now my dancing fan has a counterpart.’

Orion runs the sash between his fingers: it is quite heavy and would sit on him wonderfully, Dandolo thinks. Orion stops, reaching an obstruction, and turns the sash. Roughly in the middle of the length of it, spaced out a few fingers away from each other, are three big glimmering beads of golden aventurine glass—belonging to Dandolo just before he made the sash.

But Dandolo doesn’t watch the light play in the beads—he watches Orion’s face, and tries not to laugh. Orion’s brows rise, then knit slightly as he frowns in confusion—then almost meet in an even deeper frown as confusion turns to understanding and outrage. Then Orion looks at him, thumbing the three beads. ‘You...’ He curses thickly.

Dandolo can’t hold back laughter anymore, but manages: ‘Yes! Your own _Orion_ _’s Belt_!’

He takes off before Orion reaches for a wrench, and then ducks, dodging as it flies, followed by more loud curses.


End file.
